


Absolution

by artoriusrex (jesusonaunicycle)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Death, Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Mute Aithusa, Muteness, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Romance, Pre-Slash, mute character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 15:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesusonaunicycle/pseuds/artoriusrex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<em>Merlin was always the one to see the assignments go, the one who looked into their eyes and absolved them as they died.</em>"</p><p>Arthur Pendragon, an affiliate of a group of organized assassins called the Kings, is given a job that shakes his very foundation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> In short, I watched Smokin' Aces recently, and was inspired. It kind of took off from there? I really don't know how to explain it? I'm still kind of world-building, but it's nice so far. I don't know if I'll make it a series and elaborate on things or not, we'll see.
> 
> Am I back in the swing of things? Was I ever in the swing of things? The world may never know.
> 
> Just a few warnings: the beginning scene in the hospital has the character death, and it's not gory/too graphic, but if you have issues with death (in this case, asphyxiation) or hospitals in general then you should skip down to the first section break.

_“Am I really dying?”_

_“We are all dying.”_

_—Smokin’ Aces_

~~~

The sound of hospital monitors was deafening. He hated every minute of it. He’d always hated hospitals and their tiny beeps, the shuddery noises of respirators, the sterile smells of cleaning supplies, scrubbing away the scent of death. Since his father’s hospitalization early in his childhood, institutions like the one he is in sickened him. It took a literal life-or-death situation to get him into a hospital. He wouldn’t go in to one even to see a recovering victim from one of his cases. _Not life or death,_ he thought with a wry twist of his lips, _but this is certainly enough._

Ygraine Pendragon lay on the hospital bed before him. She looked as she had in his father’s pictures; yellow hair, a fine-boned but aquiline face, high cheekbones that matched his own. A queen’s face. A regal face, with full, chapped lips and clear, smooth skin. The only evidence of her age was the streaks of silver in her plaited hair, so faint that her own son had trouble noticing them. Well, he granted himself, he’d never seen his mother in the flesh before. He supposed he had that excuse.

In the bed directly adjacent to his mother, another woman lay. Younger, but no less beautiful, Morgana Pendragon was lax against the bleached-white sheets. In truth, he’d never seen his half-sister so still. Morgana had always been in motion, even when they were children. Her black hair was fanned out above her head, unlike Ygraine’s neat braid, and her brow was pinched in sleep. His source assured him that, due to the sedatives she was under, Morgana wouldn’t wake. Her breathing was controlled by a respirator lodged deep in her throat, something about lung complications with the sedative and medication she was on.

Arthur swallowed against the tears that filled his eyes, unbidden. He had a job to do. It wouldn’t do for him to get emotional now, so far into the assignment. The Dragon had given him this case for a reason, he’d known that from the beginning. Now he knew what it was. To prove his loyalty, his willingness to do what is right. No matter the consequences.

He went to his mother first. He had to say goodbye, in some way, to pay respects to the woman who gave him life, but whom he’d never met. Who he would never meet. His father made sure of that, not that he blamed him. Uther Pendragon was a lot of things, he’d learned, but the man did love his family. Arthur knew he wouldn’t intentionally hurt his son by showing him his comatose mother. The fact that Uther had kept Ygraine’s heart beating for so long was a testament to that fierce, unwavering love.

Ygraine’s hand was cool and soft in his own. Her fingers were slim, and Arthur was careful with her, afraid he might break her. The surgical tape was rough against his fingers, but he held his mother’s hand for the first time, tears welling again. He looked at her face, so relaxed and smooth in her coma, and the tears began to fall.

“Hello, Mother,” Arthur nearly choked, his whisper filling the not-silence, a voice to the orchestra of the hospital. The only response from Ygraine was the steady beep of her heart monitor.

He held her hand for several more minutes, before he made himself move on. He went to his half-sister, not bothering to wipe away his tears. They’d never had the liberty of expressing emotions as children, and he felt he owed his sister this. At least once, he would show her how he really felt.

Like Ygraine’s, Morgana’s hands were soft. But they were warmer, more alive, somehow, as Arthur cradled a delicate hand between his own. He gazed sadly at his sister’s face, wishing to see those fierce green eyes one last time, because how was he going to remember them years from now, when—

Arthur took a shuddery breath. He closed his eyes, briefly, analyzed the feeling of tears sliding down his cheeks. And then he opened them again, to smile at his sister.

“You were always the braver one of us,” he told Morgana, his voice thick. “You better appreciate that now, you won’t hear that ever again.” He almost winced, but he did not retract his words. Suddenly, white-hot rage boiled in his veins as he was reminded of his job, his purpose. He snarled as he said, “God, Morgana, fuck you. Fuck you for this. How could you do this to yourself? To me? To your _future_?” Arthur hiccoughed, dragged his free hand across his face. His other still had a gentle grip on his sister’s hand. “You could have come to me, I could’ve helped. I knew that we’d been distant but I never thought…” he trailed off, finally looking back at his sister’s lax face. “I could have helped you,” he whispered fervently, but he knew Morgana wouldn’t hear.

He laid her hand back down on the sheets gently. He had to do this quickly, now. He’d memorized the nurses’ rotations, and one would be coming by in ten minutes to check up on their vitals. His shoes didn’t make a sound on the linoleum floor as he crossed to the middle of the room, behind the respirators and monitors. There, nestled with the rest of the plugs, were the life-support systems.

He reached out, but he paused. He always had to pause, a split-second to reaffirm that he was doing the right thing, that his orders were just orders and the Dragon wasn’t just pushing. Most assignments it would only take a split second, not enough to hinder his ability to finish the job. Certainly not enough to make him pause pulling the trigger. But the Dragon had to make him take this job, this assignment, the one job he didn’t know if he could do.

Arthur snatched his hand back like he’d been burned, dragging it through his hair and tugging violently. “Fuck!” he hissed, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

_“Excalibur?”_ the familiar voice came from Arthur’s earpiece.

“What?” he snapped, his breathing labored. There was a pause on the other end before the voice came again, hesitantly.

_“You have ten minutes to get out of there, Excalibur.”_

“Fuck,” Arthur said again, making himself turn around to face the life-support systems. He swallowed before he asked, “Are the stairways clear?”

_“Affirmative,”_ the voice said, a trace of worry in her tone. _“You should be okay if you get a move on.”_

Arthur nodded, even though he knew she couldn’t see him. Gwen’s tech was great, and the Dragon’s reaches were far, but he’d made sure that the cameras in the rooms were disabled. No one could see him as he reached for the gray plugs, took one in each hand, and tugged.

There was a moment of silence before the screeching of machines pierced the air. Ygraine was silent and still as her heart failed, her breathing stuttered to a stop. But Morgana jerked in her hospital bed, her pale green eyes flying open to stare at Arthur. She choked around her respirator, tears filling her eyes from the pain, and Arthur’s hand whipped over to hold hers for a brief moment, eyes wide as he did what little he could to soothe her.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out as her hand did its best to crush his. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, kept repeating, as Morgana’s bright, pleading eyes began to dim. He only stopped when her hand went slack in his, her eyes glazed and lifeless, still locked on his own.

 

* * *

 

It took him five minutes to get out of the hospital. He’d passed by personnel with surprising ease, security cameras turning away from him as he flew down stairways. It took a herculean effort not to burst out of the hospital and vomit in the street. He stumbled to the curb anyway, his hands on his knees as he gulped in air, his eyes shut tight against the burn of tears.

The sound of shoes on the pavement didn’t even stir him from his heaving. Gentle hands pressed against his shoulders, hot hands, hands he knew were calloused and long-fingered, tough hands, invincible hands, hands that punched and slapped and handled a gun, hands that murdered, hands that caressed, hands that—

“Arthur! Arthur, we have to go,” Merlin’s voice rang in his ears, soft but urgent. He urged Arthur to stand up straight, gripping his shoulders and turning him so they were face-to-face. His eyes were almost black in the night, but Arthur knew they were really a gray-blue, darker than his own but softer, kinder. Merlin was always the one to see the assignments go, the one who looked into their eyes and absolved them as they died.

“Merlin,” Arthur sobbed, wishing for that absolution. Merlin’s infinite forgiveness, the kindness he so badly craved. He clutched at his partner’s black jacket, and he got a glimpse of Merlin’s shocked face before he was suddenly pulled into his embrace, his face tucked into Merlin’s neck. There, he let himself cry.

The sound of a car pulling to the curb finally made Arthur stop crying. He slowly extracted himself from Merlin’s embrace, not daring to look Merlin in the eye as he turned toward the sleek, nondescript black car and slip into the backseat.

The ride back to HQ was quieter than usual. Thankfully, Lance was driving, so there were no probing questions or annoying anecdotes between Merlin and whoever else drove (namely: Gwaine). Besides that, Merlin was also uncharacteristically silent, respectfully staying on his side of the car and not infringing on Arthur’s personal space. It had been the first time he’d done that since they had just become partners. For once, he missed Merlin’s constant warmth pressed up against his side.

Lance dropped them off at the nondescript building they were currently using for HQ. It was a simple, chrome-and-glass skyscraper with the name _The Valley of Kings_ lit up in neon on the side. Merlin and Arthur walked in and immediately headed for the elevator, swiped their key cards, and headed up to the “penthouse” on floor 17.

Arthur stared as the numbers above the elevator doors steadily ticked higher. He focused on the tedious counting instead of his own thoughts, which roiled around in his head. _Ten, eleven, twelve…_

Suddenly, the elevator lurched to a halt. The lights dimmed and Arthur whirled to Merlin, who was gazing at him calmly, his finger still pressed to the emergency stop button.

“What the hell, Emrys?” Arthur hissed, prepared to reach for his weapon, but Merlin didn’t look like he was about to turn on him. Instead, he just looked sad, concerned. It put Arthur on edge.

“We need to talk about what happened in that hospital.” It wasn’t a request. After almost a year of being partnered with Emrys, Arthur knew perhaps more than anyone that even though Merlin was kind, he was actually made of steel. As far as Arthur knew, nothing could break Merlin. And, Arthur knew, Merlin could break anyone.

Still, Arthur had a few secrets. Ones that he’d never planned to betray to anyone, not even Merlin. The murder of his sister and mother was one such secret. “No, we don’t.” His voice was final, firm, and he reached for the emergency button, but Merlin’s hand lashed out and gripped Arthur’s wrist.

Arthur spun back to face him, his free hand already up to strike, but Merlin snatched that arm from him too. They scuffled, Arthur struggling in Merlin’s vice-like grip. In seconds, Merlin had Arthur pinned against the side of the elevator, one arm twisted behind his back and the other held by Merlin’s crushing hold.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed, low and intimate in Arthur’s ear, “please. Let me help.”

Arthur’s body shook. The emotions he’d tried so hard to repress in the car ride over to HQ, the ones he was supposed to keep to himself until he met with the Dragon, threatened to spill over. He squeezed his eyes shut against the burning in his throat. But he had to keep this locked away, at least until after his debriefing. He hoped that Merlin would understand.

“Later,” he choked out, clearing his throat. Merlin’s grip gentled on his wrist, and Arthur felt his partner’s tense muscles relax.

“Okay,” Merlin whispered, rubbing at where his fingers had bruised Arthur’s wrist. “Okay.” He let go of Arthur’s arm.

They both cleared their throats. Arthur turned back to Merlin with a grimace, but Merlin didn’t seem to notice. His face was clouded with concern, and it was moments like these where Arthur wondered how Merlin could have ever gotten into this business. How someone so open and caring could possibly kill people for money. He’d never understand. Some part of him, the part that wanted Merlin to be the pinnacle of goodness, didn’t want to.

Someone pressed the emergency button again, and the lights in the elevator came back on. The slow second half of the ascent was just as silent as first half. And when the elevator doors opened with a metallic slide, revealing the white-and-black marble floors of headquarters, Merlin rested a hand on Arthur’s shoulder briefly.

“Later,” Merlin murmured in Arthur’s ear, right before the omnipresent secretary Aithusa clicked into the room on sharp stiletto heels.

Aithusa smiled tightly at the agents, holding her clipboard to her chest in that nervous way she had. The girl had white-blonde hair that was cut short, revealing an almost childlike face with round cheeks and a button-nose. If Arthur hadn’t seen her singlehandedly eviscerate a squad of Saxons, he’d want to buy her candy and take her Christmas shopping.

“Hello, Aithusa,” Merlin said cheerily, stepping out of the elevator and into the foyer. He minded her personal space too, obviously remembering the same incident Arthur was. “Wonderful to see you again, love. How’s old Killy?”

Aithusa huffed out a breath, and Arthur swore he saw her roll her eyes. She held up her hands and signed, “Hello, Emrys. He’s waiting on you for your debriefing.” She directed this at Arthur, who nodded and smiled. Arthur already knew who “he” was.

“Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting then,” Arthur made himself say, plastering on his work smile. Aithusa didn’t comment on its falseness, but he saw Merlin’s eyebrows notch together slightly. Still, he nodded to them both, heading down the hallway with a stilted goodbye.

Arthur walked down the short hallway and rounded the corner, but he dithered outside of the Dragon’s office. The white door was obstinate, the only marking a silver 616, the room number. How many times has he knocked on this door after an assignment? Countless, since his induction five years ago. Never had he felt such trepidation before entering. Even so, he took a steeling breath and twisted the handle, the door already unlocked and waiting for his entry.

The Dragon’s office was dark. The blinds were tightly shut, but Arthur had been inside too many times to trip or stumble. Cigarette smoke curled inside the office, illuminated only briefly by the stray beams of moonlight through the blinds. The door clicked shut behind him, but there was only a chair, a desk, a computer, and the Dragon in front of him.

“Excalibur,” came the Dragon’s voice, gravelly and deep. Arthur had once commented that his voice sounded like he’d gargled with glass. He’d spent a week in Egypt after that.

He’d never commented on anything of the Dragon’s ever again.

“Nice to see you again, Director Kilgharrah,” Arthur said formally, taking a seat in front of the massive oak desk. The Dragon’s eyes, strangely visible because of the dimly lit computer monitor, gleamed amber as they tracked his movements. “I’m assuming you want to go over the Pendragon assignment?”

Saying the name hurt. His last name was Pendragon, once. He had been Uther Pendragon’s son, destined to be CEO of a multimillion-dollar arms company. Young, foolish, happy—and blissfully unaware of all of the secrets that surrounded his family. His friends. The secrets that plagued him now, even as he slept.

He wasn’t Arthur Pendragon anymore. He was Excalibur, the sword that the Kings wielded, another Knight in the garrison.

The Dragon took a long drag from his cigarette, the orange light casting an eery glow over the director’s heavily scarred face. “Of course,” he intoned, blowing out a billow of smoke. He’d kindly directed it away from Arthur’s face. This time.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Everything went according to plan,” he said, trying not to think about the way his sister thrashed, the way his mother hadn’t even twitched, “though it took… longer than expected.”

The Dragon was silent for a very long moment. Long enough for Arthur to fight the urge to fidget, something he hadn’t done since he was in university. He was just about to open his mouth again, to say _something_ , when the Dragon beat him to it. 

“The Pendragons never did go down without a fight.”

Arthur tried not to blanch. The statement had thrown him, but he remained silent in his seat, waiting for Kilgharrah to elaborate.

He wasn’t disappointed. The director sighed, a wheezy sound of a long-term smoker, and snubbed out his cigarette in a crystal ash tray. “You remember when I first came to you about the Valley of the Kings. How opposed you were,” Kilgharrah chuckled. His chair creaked as he leaned back against the rest. “It is comical now, but it was infuriating then. How noble you are, Arthur Pendragon. It’s what drew me to you in the first place.”

Arthur tried not to show his shock. He sat stock-still, his hands fisting the armrests of his chair. He’d never heard this from the director before. He wanted it to stop, but he couldn’t find the words.

“Your father, despite his many faults, was a necessary influence on you. As was your sister, and the loss of your mother. I am sorry that they are gone from you,” Kilgharrah said with the closest thing to kindness in his voice that Arthur had ever heard.

“What’s done is done.” Arthur’s voice was clipped, his gaze blank. He stared coldly at Kilgharrah, unwilling to show the slightest bit of emotion to his employer. In the hazy darkness, Arthur swore he could see the man’s gnarled face twitch with a smile.

“Very good, Excalibur. I want a written report on Monday.” The Dragon paused, and Arthur heard the flick of a lighter. Very briefly Arthur got to see the Dragon’s face; burn scars making him seem like a melting wax figure, his thin mouth pursed around a cigarette, yellow eyes narrowed. Then the image was gone, and Arthur got a face full of smoke.

The chair rasped against the floor as Arthur stood. Arthur made no move to say parting words, and the Dragon was silent, puffing on his cigarette once more.

 

* * *

 

The black-and-white tile floor seemed to stretch on forever. It took ages for Arthur to get back to his room, and by that time he was exhausted, his feet dragging and his eyes drooping. When he finally swiped his key, he was fully prepared to collapse onto his bed and never get back up.

His rooms were standard; pale beige walls, unadorned except for a smoke alarm and a strange abstract piece of artwork that hung above his bed. His bed was a white-sheeted, luxurious queen of a mattress, just now starting to feel like his own bed instead of a hotel cot. He had a desk that had neatly stacked papers on it, a closet with his suits and a safe where he kept his gun and valuables inside, and a chest of drawers where his foldable clothes were put. The flatscreen atop that chest of drawers hadn’t even been turned on in the year he had been staying there. He walked into his room, fully intending on just going to sleep, when he noticed that a. his lights were on, b. his TV was blaring, and c. his nosy, good-for-nothing partner was sprawled out on his bed.

Merlin looked up from where he was laying, his eyes doe-like and innocent as he blinked up at Arthur. Then, a brilliant smile overtook his face. “Hello, Arthur!”

Arthur let the door slam shut behind him, but he made no move to enter further. “You know, just because we’re partners, does not mean that you get to jump in my bed and watch my television,” Arthur groused, but he was just too tired to fight Merlin anymore.

Merlin scoffed and clambered (rather ridiculously, if Arthur had any say in the matter) over to the edge of the mattress, and reached for Arthur like a two-year-old instead of a twenty-eight-year-old. “You never watch TV anyway,” he said, reeling Arthur in by his shirt sleeves. “And your bed is much more comfortable than mine.”

“Perks of being one of the director’s favorites,” Arthur muttered, but he sat next to Merlin anyway. It was surprisingly easy, being in Merlin’s presence. It was warm, friendly, welcoming; something he’d never experienced before. With his father it had been cordial, fond if a little strained, cold more often than not. Morgana was easier; good-natured sibling rivalry and a mutual understanding of Uther’s detached parenting made it simple to be together, silent or with friends. The thought of his sister made his chest ache fiercely.

He must have done something that gave himself away, because Merlin frowned, a divot appearing between knitted brows. “What happened in that hospital, Arthur?” he murmured, one hand resting like a weight on Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur closed his eyes on an inhale. “You shouldn’t be asking that, Emrys.” 

Technically, the Kings didn’t allow partners, except for in special cases or in initiations. They certainly didn’t allow for partners to stay together as long as he and Merlin had. So the rule of secrecy about assignments wasn’t that big of an issue with other agents; in fact, it was more of a guideline to not getting attached or compromised on the job than anything. But with Merlin?

Everything was different with Merlin.

“Arthur,” Merlin chided gently, the way he always did when Arthur threw up codenames instead of given names. “I know that whatever happened in there must have been terrible. You’ve never reacted that way on a job. The closest I’ve seen you to breaking down like that was in Cairo, and that—” Merlin paused, cringed as he remembered. He shook himself. “Anyway. I can tell it’s eating you, and it’s only been an hour. Please, tell me.”

Gentle fingers settled on Arthur’s jaw. The pressure made him lean into it, made Arthur turn his head in the direction of Merlin’s face. Muscle memory, Arthur supposed, because while Merlin wasn’t necessarily free with his touches on the job, he was at HQ. Kind touches, soft touches, hard touches, angry touches. Arthur reveled in the touches, and that’s what made him open his eyes.

Merlin was staring at him, eyes soft and concerned.

He opened his mouth and it all came tumbling out. His sister, the transplant plans, everything. The fact his sister felt like she had to keep the cancer from Arthur. How she was working against the Kings and that’s why she couldn’t get a heart by a waiting list. How she then checked her blood type and how it matched Arthur’s mother’s. How Ygraine had been in a coma all this time, and he never knew, thanks to his father. How Morgana planned to take Ygraine’s heart but there was complications in the anesthesia, and Morgana reacted badly enough for the surgery to be postponed and for her to be put on a respirator. How the Dragon wanted Morgana dead; how the Kings wanted her dead because of the threat she posed. How she’d plotted to kill the Knights, one by one—including her own brother.

Merlin’s hands gradually drifted from his face as he talked. Without Arthur even realizing, he’d shifted them up the bed, leaning against the pillows and wrapped up in each other.

When Arthur was finished, Merlin was trembling. “So they chose you for the assignment. Why? To test your loyalty?” he said, his voice low and quaking with fury. Arthur merely shook his head.

“What fucking bullshit. What fucking—” Merlin cut himself off, forcing two long, deep breaths. Arthur recognized the technique; Merlin did that when he was about to do something very difficult. Or very, very stupid. “God, Arthur. I can’t even imagine.” 

“What’s done is done,” Arthur said, voice soft, uttering the same words he’d said to the Dragon. _It is done,_ Arthur thought, closing his eyes again, feeling the familiar burn of tears behind his eyelids.

“I forgive you.”

The words were unexpected. Arthur blinked, shifted slightly as to look up at Merlin, but Merlin’s arms tightened around him so he couldn’t move. “Merlin—?”

“I forgive you, because neither your mother or your sister can.”

Arthur started to shake. “Merlin, _please_ —”

“I forgive you, Arthur,” Merlin said fiercely, fingers digging into Arthur’s sides. “In this job we’ve all had to do terrible things, horrible things we could’ve said no to but did anyway. For the money, for ourselves, just because we’ve gotten in too deep or—or for justice,” Merlin choked, swallowed, and Arthur realized that he was crying, too. His hands fisted in Merlin’s t-shirt. “And I may not understand why… why this didn’t make you say no, but I do forgive you. Because I know you’d forgive me,” he whispered, and Arthur shook apart.

The sobbing that racked his frame felt different than the tears at the hospital. No, those tears were shed because of guilt, and overwhelming grief. And while the tears he shed now were full of both of those things, he also felt a perverse relief because Merlin _forgave_ him. He forgave him; he forgave his heinous sin and held him, hushed and soothed him.

Minutes or hours ticked by until Arthur’s tears stopped. By then he was too tired to move, too tired to speak; Merlin seemed to understand. His partner’s grip finally relaxed, but he didn’t move from his spot, for which Arthur was grateful. He didn’t know how long he’d last without Merlin there to ground him. They fell asleep like that, Arthur’s head resting in the crook of Merlin’s neck and shoulder, one arm wrapped tight around Merlin’s middle as Merlin enveloped him in his embrace.

Arthur knew this wasn’t the end. Merlin would never act as if Arthur was fragile, but he would insist on looking after him. They’d fight and bicker and almost get killed on a job. Arthur would never be the same. He’d still remember how his sister’s face contorted with pain at the very end, and the slab of marble that was once the living, breathing version of his mother. Years from now he’d flinch at the sound of heart monitors, and even when Lance or Gwaine or even Gwen was hospitalized, he’d refuse to even step into the building. And he may never be absolved of his sin, but he may be forgiven, accepted; at least by Merlin. As it should be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is much appreciated! 
> 
> You can give me love on tumblr [here](http://jesus-on-a-unicycle.tumblr.com/)  
> You can also give me love on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/jesus_on_a_bike)


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